


Dirk/Karkat Fucklets

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Asphyxiation, Black-Red Vacillation, Blood, Choking, Consent Issues, Cyborgs, Humiliation, M/M, Omorashi, Quadrant Vacillation, Smoking, Violence, Wetting, cyborgification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk/Karkat ficlets written for prompts on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt: Choking

**Author's Note:**

> The term fucklets is borrowed from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1983798).
> 
> I am always open to fic ideas or general ramblings [on tumblr](http://gendersquare.tumblr.com)!
> 
> As always, thank you to stunrunner for zir edits.

In interspecies porn, trolls are usually depicted as the big, fierce ones, fucking the hell out of helpless women or twinky guys. Karkat couldn't relate. His human partner was several inches taller than him and, despite lacking fangs or claws, more than strong enough to make up for that. As embarrassing as it was, Karkat liked that about Dirk – knowing that Dirk _could_ overpower him, could throw him around, could hurt him, if he wanted to. During sex, Karkat let Dirk take charge, not because he liked anal sex just as much as he liked nook penetration (he didn't) nor because he was a masochist (he was, but not as much as Dirk was a sadist), but because the feeling of Dirk taking control and using Karkat as he wanted was overwhelming and cathartic and enough to make Karkat stop thinking about his responsibilities, his problems, his fuck-ups – enough to stop thinking at all.

Dirk was already buried deep inside Karkat's ass, slowly rocking his hips, giving his partner time to acclimate, when Karkat tightened his grip on the sheets and said - not asked - “Choke me.”

Dirk didn't miss a beat, didn't ask questions, didn't do it half-assed – he does nothing half-assed – and placed both hands on Karkat's throat. With the first hint of pressure adrenaline shocked Karkat's system, a panic switch flipped as he thought desperately that Dirk could kill him, Dirk won't kill him, but Dirk _could_ kill him.

Karkat stared up into Dirk's eyes, vivid orange pupils behind pale lashes, half-closed below lowered brows, watching Karkat with dangerous intensity. Karkat felt dizzy and terrified as the world swam, but it wasn’t not enough to fully dull the sensation of Dirk starting to thrust into him in earnest. Karkat tried to moan but he couldn't. The fear was intoxicating, because while he trusted Dirk would let go at any moment, the shadow of doubt _that Dirk might not stop_ only widened as Karkat’s vision dulled and unconsciousness threatened to swallow him whole.


	2. Prompt: Smoking

“We don't serve candycorns here!”

The line did little more than annoy Karkat now, but getting bodily thrown out of a mediocre restaurant, out the back door next to the dumpsters, hurt on more than one level. He winced and carefully moved each of his limbs, testing them to ensure they were just sore, not twisted or broken, before getting to his feet. He'd have a nice set of bruises tomorrow, but for now his clothes were worst for wear, fraying jeans now torn well beyond the limits of any sort of retro distressed fashion and a garlic-reeking tomato sauce stain on one of his sweatshirt's elbows. He cursed; this had been the last good sweatshirt he'd had.

He pulled himself to his feet, wiping his hands on the least-filthy part of his pants.

“Don't you know by now which establishments are filled with xenophobic bastards and which put on a politically correct show but care more about your money than your species?”

Karkat looked around in alarm around the dim alley. His eyes almost missed him at first, but then he spotted a human on the other side of the dumpster, absurd glasses on his face and pulling a cigarette out of a carton. “Any place with a modicum of alleged class has to say they keep trolls out, but a lot of 'em would let you in if you hid your horns better.”

“I did hide them well! The asshole waiter yanked my hood down before he even took my order.”

“Again, first step to proper disguise is knowing your audience.” The human placed the cigarette between his lips and pulled a lighter out of his pocket. “You're lucky you can pull this shit at all. Most trolls have to file their horns down to get them that small.”

Karkat approached the human, watching the flame of the lighter and the glowing ember of the cigarette as he inhaled. Really, he should get the hell out of this neighborhood and back to the Alternian ghetto, since curfew was only two hours away and no eatery around here would serve him when he looked like this.

“What the fuck makes you think I don't file them?”

“Because if you did, you'd have done your goddamn research on where you could eat and where you couldn't. Instead, you think you can just cruise on your human-enough looks.”

“Don't accuse me of looking like a fucking human-”

“Plus, if you did file your horns, you would've corrected me, or made some pained comment about how I don't know shit about horn-filing, et cetera. So thank you for the confirmation of my informed guess.”

“You're fucking welcome.” _You cocky shit_ , Karkat thought, but there were things even he wasn't stupid enough to say to a human. One incident was enough for today, so Karkat instead focused on the stream of smoke the human was exhaling. It was a light gray amongst the darker grays and browns and blacks of the alley, barely illuminated by some haphazard lighting bleeding out from nearby businesses and second-story windows. The human held the cigarette back up to his lips and took another drag.

“My name is Dirk,” he said after his next exhale.

“What?” Karkat was startled.

“I'm not a fan of being objectified, so if you're going to admire my elegant smoking, you should know my name. It's the first logical step to appreciating me as a person, and not just a cigarette-blowing hot piece of ass.”

“Why the fuck do you think I'm admiring your smoking?”

“Because unlike some individuals, I'm observant.”

The corner of Dirk's lips twitched, like he thought himself uproariously funny, but was too cool to laugh at his own wit. Karkat felt his cheeks flush, resentful that Dirk had not only noticed Karkat’s preoccupation with his lips on the cigarette, but felt the need to mention it. Furthermore, he felt disheveled and discombobulated in contrast to this smartass in slick black jeans and a tight shirt that showed off substantial muscles. He passionately wished he was wearing something much less ugly, or at least less filthy.

“At least I'm not a smug jackass.”

Dirk didn't quite smile, but the amusement lingered in his expression nevertheless. “No, you're too straightforward to be smug. But I'll bet anything you're just as much of a jackass as me.”

Dirk beckoned Karkat closer, and like an idiot, the troll followed. They were only a couple of feet apart now, and Karkat felt his blood pusher jump in his chest, like an idiot in a movie about to get his first kiss from the handsome stranger. But no, Dirk was just making a show of inhaling deeply from his cigarette again – and suddenly placing a warm hand on the back of Karkat's neck and leaning in, and slowly parting his lips to let Karkat catch a faceful of smoke.

The troll was furious, too busy coughing to respond with any coherent hate right away, but as he did, he couldn't help but inhale the rich, sharp, _intoxicating_ smell. Had cigarette smoke always smelled this good, or just when mixed up with the spicy, exotic smell of a human and emanating from said human's thin, shapely lips? Something very distinctly pitch was stirring inside of him, setting all his nerves on edge and making him hyperaware that Dirk's hand was still on the back of his neck. Karkat looked into the abyss of Dirk's opaque shades and made the conscious decision not to flee, even as he felt certain that at some point, be it in a minute or an hour or a year, he'd come to regret it.


	3. Prompt: Pride, red/black vacillation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warnings: minor injuries, unhealthy relationships, and emotional manipulation._

Dirk dabbed disinfectant on his shoulders, steeling himself at the sting as the antiseptic seeped into the fresh claw marks. It hurt, but the pain was a price he was more than willing to pay after getting to shove Karkat against a wall and fuck him until they were both coming loudly – and in the troll's case, messily. Dirk might not've pierced Karkat's skin, but he had certainly left his fair share of bruises.

Thinking back to those bruises, Dirk didn't find his usual schadenfreude, the thought of Karkat suffering, to be solidly satisfying. Karkat's thin bravado was growing less and less truly irritating, as Dirk was discovering the troll’s ego was as fragile as tissue. It was just kind of pathetic at this point, but contrary to what Dirk would've expected, he wasn't losing interest. His image of Karkat wasn't fading from a passion-inspiring nemesis to a craven loudmouth. Instead, Karkat was becoming pitiable in the distinctly troll sense of the word.

When he’d adequately tended to his wounds, Dirk screwed the cap back on the bottle as he pondered the dilemma of pushing his relationship with Karkat out of pitch territory. He played out scenarios in his head, evaluating the merits of each possible approach. He briefly, but not seriously, considered the most forward route as he vividly envisioned a pesterchum conversation that resulted in awkward discussions of emotions, bickering about quadrants, and an unsatisfying resolution. Karkat was far more abrasive than he was malicious, but the potential for Dirk to be rebuffed upon opening up was unpleasant; it would likely work out, but it was still too much of a gamble for Dirk given the consequences.

After all, Dirk reminded himself, Karkat was easy to read. Nothing in the troll's demeanor today had indicated that his feelings for Dirk had shifted. Granted Dirk had played his role admirably, but Karkat's defense mechanisms and attempts at subterfuge were predictable and transparent. The likelihood that Karkat also felt flushed but was hiding it was negligible.

As a consequence of his mangled attempt at a relationship with Jake, Dirk had realized that manipulation was likely not the wisest way to create or alter a relationship. Effective in the short-term, yes, but while one could steer people, one couldn't change them.

That said, when faced with a choice between doing nothing (unacceptable), a plain-faced attempt to discuss the matter (unacceptable), or gently steering the relationship in a flushed direction (unfortunate but acceptable), there was no doubt which option he’d pick. In the meantime, Dirk didn't mind racking up new scars, but it was time to do some research into Alternian romantic psychology.


	4. Prompt: Piss gets mistaken for genetic material

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Warnings: Exactly what you'd expect._

Karkat let the door slam behind him as he raced out down the hall, bladder painfully full. Fuck Jake and Roxy for insisting they all watch another episode of Survivor, and fuck himself for agreeing. He had wanted to leave over an hour ago - he clearly _needed_ to leave after all the soda he’d had and the lack of bathroom breaks he’d taken - but no, he waited until the very last second. His departure had been abrupt and rude, but at least he’d gotten out of their sight before springing a leak.

“No, fuck, NO!” Karkat squeezed his legs together, but his body refused to listen and continued letting piss jet out of him. Desperately, he grabbed his crotch, pressing his fingers right up against his urethra through his clothing as he willed himself to stop. He just barely managed to stem the flow, but his pants and underwear were obviously wet, a huge patch spreading across his crotch and trickling down his legs.

The bathroom was just one more corridor away, so Karkat bolted, praying no one else was in there. He barged in, kicking off his shoes and making a beeline for the shower. He tore off his shirt as his bladder ached, threatening to give way again. He angrily yanked off his already-piss-stained pants and underwear, leaving them on the floor of the shared bathroom without a care for the consequences. He jumped into one of the shower stalls and had just enough patience to yank the curtain shut before letting his burning muscles release. The relief was near-instantaneous as piss poured out of the hole between his bulge and his nook, the red-tinted liquid noisily gushing to the floor. As it splattered his feet, he turned on the shower, hissing as the icy water hit him before taking precious seconds to warm to an acceptable temperature.

Karkat's bulge, previously straining and thick, relaxed and began to curl up on itself as he continued urinating. His full bladder had put pressure on his genetic material sac, mimicking the feeling of arousal. That, combined with the sheer shortage of space in his abdomen, had forced his bulge out of its sheath. It'd been equally uncomfortable once out, squirming against the crotch of his pants.

Even now as his forceful pissing started to trickle off and as wonderful, clean water cascaded over him, Karkat's face felt painfully hot at the thought. 

_At least no one saw me,_ Karkat thought as he picked up the bar of soap and started to scrub himself clean. _I'd die of fucking shame if anyone saw me piss myself like a just-pupated kid._

As if the gods themselves had heard and decided to remedy the fact that Karkat had escaped this ordeal unscathed socially, the unmistakable creak of the door echoed through the bathroom. His sustenance sack dropped and he frantically rubbed the bar of soap over his legs. His first thought was that he had to get out and grab his clothes before anyone saw them, but as he heard footsteps, he realized that wasn't going to be possible.

_No, stop freaking the fuck out. Think about it for one goddamn second: If you panic and run to get them, they'll notice something's wrong. Why would someone be examining your dirty clothes? There wasn't enough piss on them that they'll stink more than someone would assume is sweat, and they weren't so sopping that a cursory glance will tell someone you pissed yourself. You could've spilled water on your pants, or dropped them in a puddle on your way to the shower, if they notice they're wet at all._

Karkat forced himself to breathe out and scrub himself more thoroughly. _Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be fucking fine. Everything – FUCK._

That was the sound of rustling clothing and, as Karkat strained to hear over the din of the shower, it didn't seem to be someone stripping naked to get in the other shower. Cursing to himself, Karkat slammed the water off, suds still trickling down his body, and reached for a towel. Of course, there was none.

 _Of fucking course,_ he thought viciously. _Great planning once again, you disgusting cretin._

“You ok in there?”

Karkat's face went crimson again. Of all the people who could have sauntered in, it had to be Karkat's impossible, cocky concupiscent crush. Karkat's hands froze, idiotically gripping the towel hook. He poked his head out, trying to glare.

“I can't blame you for forgetting a towel when you were clearly in a rush to get in here.” To Karkat’s horror, Dirk was holding the troll’s discarded pants and boxers. “Not gonna lie though, I'm curious what shenanigans you got up to today that were so titillating that you jizzed in your pants. At least I now have some firsthand data on the approximate amount of cum trolls produce. Way more than humans, yeah, but with the size of those buckets y'all use, I would’ve expected a truly copious amount.”

To Karkat's horror, Dirk put his face closer to the discarded clothing and breathed in. This was it; he was going to fucking /die/ of not only shame but the insurmountable level of awkward of this situation.

“Don't do that!” Karkat blurted out, instinctively reaching out and taking a half-step towards Dirk. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he clung to the shower curtain, ridiculously wrapping it around his torso like an ill-conceived combination of a security blanket and a bathrobe.

Dirk raised an eyebrow. “Too forward? I know you have a thing for me – yeah, it's that obvious, don't give me that look - so I didn't think this would be any kinda problem.”

“No, fuck, it's not – just please fucking put that down ok?! Can you, fuck, just get me a fucking towel?” Karkat's mind raced along with his mouth, trying to fix an impossible situation.

Dirk put one hand up in a gesture of nonaggression, his eyebrow still cocked, and slowly knelt to put the clothes down.

“Alright, if you're going to play the role of the blushing maiden, I'll play along.”

Karkat groaned, leaning against the edge of the shower stall. “You're impossible. But seriously, wash your hands first, oh my god I can't believe you-”

“Holy shit.” Dirk's brow furrowed and his lips cocked strangely. “You pissed yourself, didn't you?” he asked, more wonder than disgust in his words.

“I just asked you to get me a fucking towel!” Karkat's voice was shrill even in his own ears, only pure disbelief that this was actually happening fueling him enough to talk as his emotions completely collapsed in upon themselves into pure, singular mortification. “Are you going to get me a towel or are you going to do some hilarious, brilliant Strider ramble about how fucking uncool I am?!”

“Calm down -”

“Don't tell me to calm the fuck down-”

“I'll get you a towel.”

Dirk turned and absconded, leaving Karkat alone, dripping, unbearably humiliated, and suddenly aware of how cold he was.


	5. Prompt: Cyborgification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warnings: Blood, violence, amputation, consent issues, fetishization of amputees (kind of), lots of generally gross stuff_

The pain is so unbearable that you can barely make sense of the scene around you. Your eyes are blurry, though with tears or with blood or both you can't say, but the cold, logical voice in your brain, detached from what seems to be surrounding chaos, tells you that it's best you can't see. After all, your legs have just been chopped off ( _MY LEGS, MY FUCKING *LEGS*_ ) so any attempt to survey your surroundings would likely result in the traumatizing image of the meaty remains of the lower half. Through the din, you feel someone place a hand on your face and you hear a familiar voice.

“What are you cryin' for, dude?”

Your kismesis's voice jacks your think pan to a brand-new height of rage right when you were convinced you couldn't feel worse at this moment. Fuck, you've spent much of your life being irate, viciously angry, furious, but now you're already in indescribable anguish and the cockiest piece of shit you know is asking – not just calmly, but with amusement in his voice – why you're crying after you've just been maimed for life ( _what little of it remains because YOU'RE BLEEDING OUT AND YOU COULD FUCKING DIE, THIS IS IT, YOU'RE GOING TO DIE_ ) is unbelievable.

If you were in a better state, you would list off the multitude of reasons why you were sobbing, and spit back how this demonstrates what a horrifically socially-maladjusted excuse for a lifeform Dirk is. With your current level of suffering (IT HURTS AND I’M GOING TO DIE OF BLOOD LOSS, OH GOD - I'M DYING), you only manage to mutter, “ _Fuck you,_ ” before passing out.

Consciousness is an elusive state for what feels like an eternity of barely-registered but unflagging pain and confusion. Occasionally you catch snippets of conversations you can’t really hear properly, much less understand. You never catch any words, never fully process what's going on around you. You're vaguely aware at times that you aren't dead, which isn't a relief but an annoying reality. Being dead would hurt less.

When you finally come to in some appreciable sense, it feels like you're lying on something soft, probably a horizontal slumber platform. Your upper back seems to be propped up with pillows. Your throat's dry, but you don't feel thirsty. All of you hurts and your brain is still fuzzy as it tries to process the variety of largely-unpleasant sensations of your mangled body. You are most definitely neither dead nor at acute risk of dying.

You feel a tickle on your foot, an unpleasant sensation that gives you a shiver, like something's crawling up your leg. Even as you remember that you don't have legs, that this must be the first of what will no doubt be many exciting bouts of phantom limb syndrome, you open your eyes.

Dirk's sitting near the other end of your bed, one of his hands something silvery. After a moment, your eyes and your brain put the pieces together: That's a metal replica of a calf, complete with a foot, and a knee, and there’s an identical one lying next to it on the bed. You have robot legs. They gave you robot legs just like Tavros had. You’re a fucking cyborg, you realize. Your relief, completely expected since this means you’re still going to be able to function as well as you did before once you heal, is polluted with the irrational, sickly feeling of having something artificial attached to you and masquerading as a part of your body.

Either not aware or not caring that you're awake, Dirk leans down and plants a kiss on the rounded curve of what equates to / what is / what should be the hemispherical jut of your anklebone. You gasp at the light, not-unpleasant feel of his lips. The intensity, the _devotion_ on his face is unlike anything you've ever seen before. His other hand is between his legs - holy fuck, he's unzipping his fly. Dirk is about to jack off to your robotic limbs before you’re even healed enough to, to his knowledge, regain consciousness.

“What the fuck,” you croak, wheezing. Trying to speak _hurts_ , from your chapped lips down to an unexpected chest pain, but it's nothing compared with the disgust and shock at what Dirk's doing.

“Shut up,” he says.

“Are you-”

“Seriously, dude, you have a cracked rib too. That whole ordeal really did a number on you. So shush and let me do the talking. I told you there was nothing to cry about.” Dirk trails kisses down the ankle – your ankle, now - to lick the arch of your foot. “This is a serious improvement over your squishy, stubby legs from before. I gave you an extra two inches in height with these bad boys. Equius tried to insist on a sticking to your original dimensions, but what the fuck's the point of making you a cyborg if we aren't gonna upgrade you?”

Your stomach churns and you try to reply as horror and revulsion well up within you, but all you manage is an embarrassing cry as Dirk closes his lips around the big toe - _your_ big toe. He sucks hard, and you can feel it, you can even feel the way he traces it with his tongue. Dirk pulls his cock out of his pants and for the first time you can remember, you don't want to see it. You desperately wish you could disappear, that your moirail was here, that you were still unconscious, that anything was happening except your robot-obsessed pitchmate fondling himself while indulging his cyborg fetish or whatever. Your senses feel overwhelmed, your body buzzing with uncanny sensations from your new limbs, things that feel almost like you did, but don’t look like you, and you _know_ they aren’t you. You can’t emotionally process that metal leg Dirk’s salivating over as your own, even as your nervous system betrays you. Your belly roils again and you bite your lip, willing yourself to not be ill, blaming it absurdly on the aftereffects of whatever anesthesia they gave you. Dirk remains unaware of your plight, or chooses to ignore it.


	6. Prompt: Unrequited Love

You run your lips down the plane of Dirk's chest, across the fine blond hairs, the tiny tight nipples, and the subtle curves of his ribs. Forcing yourself not to rush is the hardest part, but after hooking up in the library, in the workroom, even in the hallway, you're going to enjoy every advantage of being in Dirk's bed, thank you very much. You finally have the chance to luxuriate in his fully naked body, rather than grope whatever you can get your hands on. Hurried, clumsy attempts to get as much of Dirk you can while being worried about someone walking in aren't ideal. Nor is worrying about it getting so intense that you scare Dirk off.

The second worry has seemed sillier every time, since this is the seventh time you two have hooked up. But really, Dirk has never verbally acknowledged this as a thing, which is obnoxious in juxtaposition with how rudely demanding he is a lot of the time, walking and talking like he owns the place. You hate it without a shred of hypocrisy, even knowing his attitude is a major part of why you're so goddamn into him.

Actually, maybe this is the eighth time you two have done this sort of thing. Did that session of grinding without kissing count? You didn't come, and it didn't last very long, but from the way Dirk sagged at the end, you think he might have. You'd definitely count it if he did, but you're not quite sure and you never asked, given that this thing isn't something you two talk about, apparently.

Maybe now's your chance to ask Dirk if he came in his pants that time, you think as your mouth reaches the fuzz-encircled indentation in his stomach. You dip your tongue out but it gets no reaction from him, and the taste is nothing pleasant.

“As fascinating as your ministrations are, you're moving notably slower than usual,” Dirk comments. “If you're trying to tease me enough to make me beg or something equally desperate and out-of-character, I can assure you it's not going to work.” He shifts himself up to put both his hands behind his head cockily. A fire burns deep within you at the sight and at his words, the baritone voice that doesn't capture coldness nearly as well as his written word does, but is still confident enough to cut through your paper-thin composure.

“No, that's not what I'm doing!” You're not proud of how your voice jumps to a squeak when you protest.

“Then why're you treating me like heirloom china? Cause we both know I'm anything but. Unless this irrational behavior is a symptom of some hella mushy, _lovey_ feelings for me.” His tone makes it clear he finds this an amusing but unlikely idea. The way your mouth goes dry and you freeze without thinking, while your throat suddenly hitches like you're going to cough up bile, makes it clear that it's neither amusing nor unlikely to you.

It's not that. You aren't in love with him, you insist to yourself even as all the pieces fall into place and you know it's stupid, idiotic, but true.

“It's called patience, you stinking gutwipe,” you reply angrily.

“Patience? You wouldn't know patience if it waited on your hive's step for a week, waiting for you to notice it. You'd rush right on by it, step on the poor thing, and not even think about what you were wiping off the sole of your shoe onto the grass while cussing about the mess.”

Continuing sounds awful and arguing sounds worse, so you do the only thing you know will interrupt him; you dip your head down and take his cock into your mouth. Sure enough, Dirk lets out a quiet gasp, but the next words out of his mouth aren't a continuation of his terrible metaphor nor further needling at you, but only, “Oh, _yeah_.”

Your own erection sags in your boxers as your denial continues. You move your mouth up and down methodically, forcing yourself to focus on breathing with your mouth full, on getting the motion consistent, on digging your nails into his hips just enough to get him to groan without making him pry you away. For him, this is clearly just physical, so you'll damn well force your brain to frame it that way too. Even though you know you can't, you have to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may eventually write more of these, but no promises at this time. Thanks for reading. <3 Keep up with me at gendersquare.tumblr.com.


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